


Red and Orange

by Smushed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Character Death, Fluff, Gore, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Apocalypse, Violence, inspired by i am legend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smushed/pseuds/Smushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See you on the other side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red and Orange

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry.

Sherlock grasped John’s hand as tightly as he could manage and they sprinted, he was trying so hard not to panic, but it was growing more and more difficult. The panting burning his chest, but he grounded himself with John’s hand in his. John lagged behind slightly, Sherlock’s longer legs leading them faster than he could keep up with. The day was dawning, the orange sky a slight comfort to them, welcome warmth as the sun transitioned across their view, bright and wonderful. It felt like they had been running all night, and with no food or energy it was hitting them hard. They passed a bunker, one they built a fortnight ago, Sherlock made a mental note. The two must have circled the suburban area again and ended up back where they started- Mrs Hudson must not be near London. As much as that concerned him, or pained him with an incessant niggle in the back of his mind, he had to just be grateful that he had John, with him, safe.  

They stopped in the middle of a main road. John was panting more than usual, sweating profusely, he slumped to the ground in exhaustion. “You may be… Used to running… With nothing to eat… But I’m not.” He managed to smile, but he winced as soon as he laughed. That bruised rib giving him trouble again. Sherlock kneeled beside him; the sun would protect them, for now they could rest. The street was completely deserted, abandoned, things that had been left in the rushed panic. Cars askew in the road, houses smashed, and the dotted splash of old blood. It hadn’t rained decently in all that time, not enough to rinse the bloodshed off the streets. He held John’s knee, squeezing with concern. Something else was wrong with him, his eyes scanned, analysed. John waved his hand in response, a forced smile, trying to comfort him, but it wasn’t working, Sherlock could see it was false. John’s chest heaved, as though he were going to throw up, only instead he sobbed. Just one cry, before sniffing and inhaling and exhaling deeply.

“John- What’s wrong?” Sherlock was strong, strong enough for both of them, only if it meant John would be safe.

“I can’t- I can’t, no, no.” He sniffed, he tried to suppress hyperventilation with his massive inhales and slow exhales.  Sherlock gripped John by the shoulders and his eyes met John’s glossy ones.

“Sherlock.” John’s face scrunched as he pointed at Sherlock’s shoulder, his coat was ripped. The detective fell backward from kneeling and sat on the ground opposite John. He touched the gaping cotton. Blood. His blood. He looked from his wound to John, and at the scarlet liquid on his fingers.

“I’ve been bitten.” He stated, he hadn’t even noticed, he was so concerned with ridding the creature that was mounted over John. John was wrestling with it, and completely immobile to shoot it, they avoided the gun at most costs because the sound always gave them away. Sherlock had hit it, but he was so panicked that John was cornered, in danger, that he had dropped his guard. He briefly remembered wrestling past two of them with John before they got back out onto the street. It would make sense now; Sherlock’s worry had shielded him from the pain or notice. But John must have watched; must have seen the teeth of the thing bite into his arm before they could move out of the way.

John’s eyes were streaming, but Sherlock made peace in that moment, it wasn’t even a question. The detective shuffled towards John and took his gun out of the waist of his jeans. John’s hand gripped Sherlock’s wrist with a vice like grip, he was angry. Why was he angry? Sherlock thought. He pursed his lips and looked at his friend; he placed his other hand over John’s that lay on his wrist. Tears dripped down John’s chin; they were rather beautiful, the way they glistened in the morning sun before they fell.  Sherlock smiled slightly.

“It’s boring anyway- isn’t it?” Sherlock’s deep voice was gentle; it cut right through John, and echoed into the sunlit street. “There are no murders anymore, John.” John’s lip quivered, but he yanked Sherlock’s wrist towards him, refusing to let go of Sherlock and willing Sherlock to drop his gun. “I have to John.” He sighed, his face lit with empathy for his friend, his strong friend, who had such a will to live, such a light for life.  John shook his head in disbelief, and spun his friend around, easily done with his weight on his knees. Sherlock fell backwards into John’s lap, no longer looking at his concerned face. His hand still clutched the gun, and his wrist was still gripped. Sherlock was confused, but human reaction to a logical solution was common when it came to death. Sherlock let his weight fall into John’s chest and lap, he could feel it already. He felt, different. Something he couldn’t quite place, he felt like his limbs were developing pins and needles.

A warm droplet on his cheekbone, it trickled, and Sherlock shut his eyes. He focused on his breathing, it was becoming weaker. How annoying, he thought, before the grip on his wrist was released, he felt John quiver with upset. The gun was free in his hand now. Sherlock looked at the handle, the trigger, this would protect John, would protect John from him. The last thing on this world Sherlock would ever do is allow him to be the cause of John’s death, his friend was a soldier, had survived wars. It would be pathetic for him to die at the hands of a monster.

He moved the gun to face him, stared right into the barrel. Death was a curious thing, he wasn’t particularly excited for this experiment, but what needs be must. He felt John shuffle slightly and his friend's hands had wrapped around his waist. What a strange intimacy, it was nice. A backward hug- a gesture of friendship, companionship, love. Sherlock wasn’t going to object, he wriggled slightly into John’s lap more so. The two watched the sun brighten the street for a moment before Sherlock sighed. It was time, he felt his muscles tremble now, and soon he would no longer have full control of them. John moved his head beside Sherlock’s, their temples touching, his wet face printing onto Sherlock’s. Sherlock smiled, what else could he do? Smiling, a simple gesture of affection, his simple gesture for John. “It’s alright John. I’m ready to go.” He tried to get out of John’s grip but he was held back with strong arms.

“No. Sherlock, I’m coming with you.” John’s words sat in Sherlock’s mind for a moment before he understood them, his brain working extra hard to comprehend simple phrases. A symptom he didn’t know about until now.

“John,” Sherlock was stern, he felt fresh tears against his own face from John’s which was still pressed beside his head. “No.”

“Sherlock.” John choked. “What do I have to live for, without you?” His voice was shaking, it was genuine. Sherlock was growing weaker, soon he would die, then he would turn, he needed to hurry up.

“John, no,” He tried to wriggle out of his friends grip to no avail, John was strong, his arms around Sherlock’s waist tightening. “Please, John. I can’t- You can’t.” One of John’s hands were free, but he still held Sherlock against him with the other. His hand held Sherlock’s that was on the gun, and pulled it from his grip with ease. _Oh._ Sherlock didn’t realise how weak he was now.

“Sherlock,” John held the barrel by his own temple, his head beside Sherlock’s, the detective welled up, trying to keep a stiff upper lip to no avail. A tear, a small cry. “Let’s go together. Please.” Sherlock shook his head feebly. “I want to, let me.” His head moved forward slightly, and from the side his lips met Sherlock’s. The detective’s eyes shut- what a wonderful sensation. A new and loving feeling. John’s lips on his, it was warm, soft, nice. He kissed him back, the flutter in his heart felt so beautiful, it completely negated all the pain he felt. “I love you.” John’s words spoke against Sherlock’s lips; a salty tear fell between them. “I always have.” Sherlock was comforted more than anything in the world to know that he was loved by a man as great as John, a man he had admired for so long.

John’s head aligned with Sherlock’s again, the gun at his temple, Sherlock heard the safety click, John’s trembles had ceased, he was strong now, he moved with certainty. Sherlock had always dismissed the afterlife as ridiculous, but his heart ached wonderfully for this man that held him, he felt so strongly for John Watson that he hoped, maybe even prayed, that something was on the other side for them. With what effort he could manage, Sherlock’s hand rose to hold John’s on the gun, and his fingers laced with the one on his waist. “I love you too, John. Always have, always will.”

The shot echoed through the street, and the crimson joined the orange rise of the sun.


End file.
